


(no, nor woman either) ;)

by hamdeny (brooklynisosm)



Series: man delights not me! verse lol [2]
Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: -hamlet at the end, F/M, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, also hamlet is autistic, also he's a thot, hamlet's a sad boy, oh my god i'm gay, that's not really important but like he is and i just want you to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynisosm/pseuds/hamdeny
Summary: it's hamlet's turn to have feelings feat. Ophelia as a fucking Queen, Horatio as an Awkward Gay who Makes Cookies, and our favorite sad boi in the starring role(a sequel to man delights not me! finally!)





	(no, nor woman either) ;)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: underage drinking, suicidal thoughts of a suicidal thot
> 
> OK I FINALLY PULLED MYSELF OUT OF A GUTTER OF DEPRESSION TO WRITE THIS PIECE OF UNNECESSARILY FLUFFY PIECE OF GARBAGE  
> sorry it took so long i have been going through a Bad Breakup but uh we're back ? while i was gone i wrote a Very Angsty thing about hamlet so i might post that but idk anyway here is Happy! the Bois are Not Sad Anymore!

It was several hours into Hamlet’s reunion with Ophelia, after they’d watched Buzzfeed Unsolved and painted each others’ nails and read horoscopes and had a few moments of awkward tension, that Ophelia said, “It looks like college has been fun.”

Hamlet blinked, re-focusing from where he’d been staring, a spot where sun illuminated the tiny freckles on her cheek. “Huh?”

Ophelia tapped his neck. It hurt a bit. “Someone bit you.” Her face was a Mona Lisa smile.

“Oh.” Something akin to a blush may have blossomed on Hamlet’s cheeks. “Yeah. It’s, uh. It’s a lot. Of people. And things happening. And, um.”

“Sexual experimentation.”

“Uh, yeeaaah. Yes.” Hamlet coughed. “I suppose so.”

Ophelia grinned. “So that’s why my dad doesn’t want me to go.”

Hamlet took the much needed opportunity to laugh. “Yeah, probably. I think he’s heard a little too much about how college turns women into feminists or lesbians. Or both.”

Ophelia mimed a swoon. They stared at each other for a second, then laughed. Though it didn’t last for long.

“So was it just some random person?” Ophelia said, her eyes fixated back to the mark on Hamlet’s neck. “Or do you have… some secret girlfriend you’re not telling me about?”

Horatio was onto something, Hamlet thought. Her eyes were a little too wide, her cheeks aflush. She liked him. Probably. His stomach squirmed. Why that made him so afraid, he didn’t know.

“God, no,” Hamlet said with a snort. “Since when do you know me to have a real relationship? Let’s face it,” he continued, with only a slight twisting of his heart, “the day someone wanted to have more than sex with me would be the day hell freezes over.”

“That’s just… completely incorrect,” said Ophelia, with a laugh. “People fall in love with you all the time.”

In an act of pure stupidity, Hamlet looked her straight in the eyes, and waited for the moment of Ophelian tension he’d been so obliviously familiar with. “Oh? Name one.”

“Horatio.”

Hamlet choked on his own spit, dissolving into a fit of wheezing coughs, his eyes filling mysteriously with tears. “Say again?” he queried, when he’d regained dignity.

“Did you not know?” Ophelia said, her brows knitting together. “Well, damn it.”

“Has he told you?” Hamlet wiped his eyes. God, all he had to do was sleep with Ophelia and the two halves of his day would be mirror images of each other. The thought distressed him.

“He says he loves you every day.”

“Yeah, in a friend way.”

“Last week he texted me, and I quote:” Ophelia took a moment to take out her phone and scroll, presumably back through her texts, “ _If I die before winter break, it’s because Hamlet wore leather pants again._ ” 

“He hates the leather pants.”

“No, he really doesn’t,” Ophelia said.

“Okay, yeah, maybe he’s physically attracted to me,” Hamlet said. His mind wandered for a second. Yes, there was no doubt Horatio found Hamlet a pleasing specimen; Hamlet had plenty of proof for that stored away in the metaphorical “Wank Bank”. “That doesn’t mean he’s in love with me. Those are two different things.”

“Hamlet, he went to Wittenberg because you wanted to go.”

Hamlet’s heart accelerated, his throat pulling tight. “No, he’s wanted to go there since we were kids.”

“ _You_ wanted to go since we were kids. He wanted to go because he knew that.” Ophelia chuckled, though her eyes were unhappy. Her gaze was kind, but laced with condescension. “You really don’t see things, do you?” 

“We slept together.”

It just slipped out, before he had a chance to be afraid.

A sudden sickness rushed over him, an awful guilty feeling he couldn’t repress.

“You-”

“We had sex. I had sex with Horatio. Multiple times.” Hamlet stared at his hands, which sat still in his lap, except for a twitching thumb. It counted for him.

“Hamlet-”

“I need a drink.” He sprung up from the bed, hands trembling. “Do I have wine in here? Do you remember?” He dug in the dresser. “Ah, here it is.” Bottom drawer, behind some sweatpants.

Ophelia went silent as he struggled with the cork. At last, she rose from her seat to kneel next to him on the floor. With deft hands, she took the bottle from him and a few moments later the cork popped out.

“You slept with him?” She said, in a cautious tone.

“Are you surprised?”

She breathed in deeply. “I guess not.”

Hamlet took a drink, straight from the bottle. The wine was stale, but still satisfying in a way that calmed his stomach a bit.

“I’d chalk it up to a drunken mistake,” he said, and closed his eyes. “But.”

“Oh, God,” Ophelia said, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Are you pregnant?”

“What?”

“I’m joking! Sheesh.”

They were quiet for a second before Hamlet remembered what he was going to say.

“It keeps happening.”

“What?”

“It keeps happening. Every time afterwards I tell myself it’s not gonna happen again and then a week later there I am disappointing the Lord yet again.” He broke down in a fit of hysterical giggles at that statement, imagining Jesus looking down on him and sighing. “And I knew, I _knew_ it was a bad idea but I thought, you know, we’re friends, right? And I can do stuff with my friends and it’s not weird. But now.” 

“I think it’s always been a little weird.”

Hamlet opened his mouth to protest, but the thought occurred to him that maybe Ophelia was right. He really did whore around with his friends too much for it to be platonic. With Laertes it had never been platonic, though he hadn’t known that until it ended. And here, at a crossroads with Horatio, it dawned on Hamlet that letting your (openly gay) best friend top you over a dozen times didn’t really ring as casual or heterosexual in any way. Especially when your other friend (who was also maybe in love with you, Jesus Christ) told you with certainty that he’d been infatuated with you the whole goddamn time.

Ophelia’s voice had softened, gone fragile as she rested her chin on his shoulder. “So you’ve figured it out, huh?”

“Figured out what?” Hamlet said, through the growing sickness in his stomach.

“That Horatio loves you,” she said, brushing her fingers through his hair. “And that… and that you love him too.”

Hamlet wanted to say something. Wanted to say no. Wanted to say, like he’d been able to so many times before, exactly how he felt about Horatio. And that feeling was loyal, kind, unflinchingly patient, beautifully intelligent, the best person Hamlet had ever known. But a friend, and nothing more.

He had not the strength nor the conviction to summon those words. The only one that sat on his tongue, ready to crawl up to his brain and taint it, was that awful _love._

“Ophelia,” he said. His eyes might have been wet; he didn’t really know. He stared at her face on; she had such pretty eyes, soft cheeks, soft mouth. “Can I. Can I kiss you?”

“Okay,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

He did. He did and wanted so badly to want it more. She made a little noise when their mouths touched; a sigh he could have mistaken for contentment if it weren’t so sad. He cupped her cheek and pulled her closer. She smelled sweet, like perfume and prettiness, like the kind of girl he’d always wanted to love.

But.

He pulled away. His cheeks burned. He couldn’t bear to look at her. His hands lay limp in his lap, trembling.

“It felt nice,” he said. “I like you so much.” A tear dripped down onto his hands.

“I know,” Ophelia murmured. “I know you like me. I like you too. But. I get it. It feels different.” Hamlet choked on a stupid sob. “Hey, Hamlet, it’s okay.” She smiled at him. It made his insides twist even more; she was turning the knife. “And I… whatever feelings you have, you need to have them. Even if it’s not what I want, or what you want. That’s who you are.”

He fell into her hug, clinging to her waist like a lifeline. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because you’re my friend and because I love you.” Ophelia shrugged. “And because it’s not necessarily a surprise. Laertes has been saying you’re gay for years.”

Hamlet didn’t know whether to be amused or offended at that.

“He’s gay too.”

“Everyone’s gay,” said Ophelia, and both of them burst into laughter, and for at least a second before the world would come crashing back down, Hamlet didn’t feel awful.

 

* * *

 

Hamlet was not good at drawing. Everything he knew he’d learned from watching Ophelia sketch, the way her pencil could pass over paper and create, seemingly by magic, a piece of art. He never hoped to be as good as her. But still, he did it sometimes, when he felt too heavy for anything else, when his eyes blurred and he couldn’t read and watching movies felt like a chore; when he feared to sleep in anticipation of nightmares, he listened to music and drew. Mostly people. He couldn’t get the dimensions right of objects, and he didn’t make big landscapes; he didn’t even use color. He stuck to faces. He drew faces until he forgot why he felt so bad.

Drawn faces helped put Hamlet at ease. Because real people were loud and confusing and two-thirds of the time he couldn’t even look them in the eye. But a sketchbook filled with mediocre line art, of eyes and mouths and feelings, was ok. When he looked at them he didn’t feel lonely.

The sketchbook lay open on the bed next to him where he’d dropped it. He was tired. He was always tired, these days. Like someone had sucked the little lively part of his soul out with a straw and put it in a safe Hamlet couldn’t guess the combination to. Yesterday he’d scribbled all up and down his arms with a ballpoint pen, trying to cover up an urge to break skin. (That was one kind of drawing he was good at, he thought, with a snort).

He picked up his sketchbook, eyes scanning the page. There, in the corner, was the obligatory self portrait. His mini-Hamlets had grown increasingly gaunt over the past few months. There was Ophelia; it was fun to draw her hair and smile, the dimple in her cheek. There was his mother in one of her more peaceful moments, next to Claudius, who seemed to stare out of the page with a sparkling eye, telling some stupid dad joke that still managed to be funny.

And there was Horatio. Everywhere else. In the center of the page. In the front of the book. On the back of the book. Small and big, rough sketches to full-blown shaded things that a more self-confident Hamlet could call art. Hamlet’s drawings were not very accurate, but Horatio was an unmistakable presence. Hamlet didn’t know why. There was just something about his face, something nice, or easy, or comforting. (Usually).

Currently the thought of Horatio sent Hamlet’s stomach shriveling, his mind preparing for shutdown. For three days he’d done nothing but stay in his room, listening to upsetting music and ignoring his texts, because he couldn’t take the risk that some of them were from Horatio.

He could practically feel Ophelia’s disappointed glare, the shake of her head and remark that he couldn’t solve his problems by ignoring them. _Just watch me try,_ he hissed at her in a fantasy, then married her and had three beautiful children. In the fantasy Horatio was at Wittenberg indefinitely, reading books and kissing boys prettier than Hamlet in a shitty dorm room, and Hamlet was only angry about it sometimes. 

He threw the sketchbook across the room. 

 

* * *

 

 

Hamlet drifted in and out of consciousness, half-drunk, half-asleep, when he heard his bedroom door open.

“I’m not hungry,” he said to his mother, pulling the blankets up to his ears.

“Really? I brought cookies for you.”

His heart jumped at the voice. One definitely not belonging to his mother. He squinted through light, his head aching at it, to find Horatio in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ, Horatio, you can’t scare me like that,” Hamlet muttered, only half-joking. “I didn’t even do my hair.”

He waited for Horatio to laugh, but no agreeable chuckle came from his friend. Horatio just stood there, frozen in the doorway, his cookie tin clasped tightly between paled knuckles. Hamlet sat up in bed a bit further, fighting the wave of dizziness that came with it.

“Why are you here?” Hamlet said, a quaver catching at his voice.

“I’m worried about you. You haven’t texted me back for days, Ophelia won’t tell me what’s going on, your mom says you haven’t come out of your room- I mean, for all I know, you could have killed yourself-” Horatio cut himself off, like he was angry or the thought of Hamlet’s dead body was a bit more than he could handle. (Hamlet, personally, enjoyed the thought of his own dead body very much, though that was probably not something he should ever say out loud). “I think the question should be why I wasn’t here two days ago.”

“Okay.” A rush of exhaustion hit him; he laid back down, rolling to the side where he could look out a window.

“Okay? That’s all you have to say?”

“Yes.”

Quiet. Horatio took a few steps closer; Hamlet heard his feet on the floor.

“Do you want a cookie?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Horatio must have seen the empty bottle on Hamlet’s bedside table. “You’ll get sick if you don’t eat.”

“Good,” Hamlet spat.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know.”

“How much did you drink?” Said Horatio in the level voice that meant You Are Unreasonable and Difficult to Deal With. It was a voice Hamlet was so familiar with. Whenever his sadness reached the point where it was less of a worry and more of an inconvenience for others, that was when the voice came out. From his father and mother and Ophelia, and, when he was a child, Yorick. And Horatio too, now.

Hamlet blinked, wetness slipping into his pillow, a pillow no stranger to Hamlet’s drunken despairs.

“I don’t feel good,” he whispered.

The bed sank down just a bit near Hamlet’s feet; a shuddery breath came from the weight that caused it.

“I’m sorry I’m mean.” he said. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, Hamlet,” said Horatio quietly. “I’m not mad at you.”

Somehow that made Hamlet’s throat close even more. He struggled to stay conscious, stay dignified enough to speak. “Did I… did I make you sad?”

There was a long silence. Hamlet closed his eyes and wondered if when he opened them, Horatio would be gone. If this were all some fucked up dream- though it couldn’t be, since more often than not these days Hamlet couldn’t even fall asleep without Horatio there.

“Yes,” Horatio said, finally.

“I’m sorry,” Hamlet said, and all of a sudden the tears he’d been trying to hold in decided to explode and a gross sound that may have been a sob wrenched its way from his chest. He hid his face in his hands but the damage had been done. He tried to stop but it was like throwing up; the sobs just kept coming, uncontrolled and awful.

He could feel Horatio’s frantic crawl across the bed to sit next to him; the hand that touched his shoulder in a rehearsed gesture of comfort. “Hey, hey,” Horatio murmured, in the tone he always used when Hamlet had breakdowns. “It’s fine. I’m not mad at you. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

He sank into an embrace he didn’t deserve. He let Horatio run a shaky hand through his hair, working through tangles, and his tears soaked into the fabric of Horatio’s shirt. He felt disgusting, and didn’t know why.

“It’s not okay,” he heard himself say. “It’s never okay. I’m shitty. Why can’t you just accept that I’m shitty and stop liking me? All I ever do is make you life harder-”

“That’s not true-”

“Shut up, it is and you know it.”

“My lord-”

Hamlet looked up at Horatio. Their faces were very close together. Hamlet could kiss him, if he just tilted his head a bit. He’d kissed Horatio while crying before; in fact, it was a fairly frequent action on his part. And then they wouldn’t have to talk about this, and they would never have to talk about it, and Hamlet wouldn’t have to feel bad anymore, at least for a little bit.

He let his tongue flick over his bottom lip, his head tilt forward a bit. Horatio had gone silent, as if he knew what came next. Their foreheads touched, and that was when Hamlet’s stomach lurched.

“And this is the problem,” he said, hoarsely.

“What-”

“I’d kiss you to make things go away,” Hamlet said, lowering his eyes in shame. “And you’d let me.”

Horatio said nothing. Hamlet buried his face in a sweatered shoulder, wrapping his arms tighter around Horatio’s torso.

There was a light touch at the back of his head, a little brushing of fingers through his hair. Tingles ran down his spine; he leaned his head into it and melted at the petting. As much as he wanted to stand some ground, Hamlet was not strong enough to resist such a gentle caress.

 _I’m tired,_ Hamlet purred, realizing as he said it that it was the truth. 

_Then sleep,_ Horatio said. 

_I don’t want you to leave._

_I won’t._

 

* * *

 Hamlet had awoken in bed with Horatio beside him more times than he’d like to admit. When they were younger it had been innocent, sleepovers and naps and dozing off while talking or watching re-runs of shows neither of them really liked, but enjoyed because of the fact they were together. The times when Hamlet had run away from his father and climbed in Horatio’s window, squeezed into a twin bed against the wall. The times Horatio’s power had gone out in winter and he’d driven, shivering, through ice to crash under Hamlet’s down comforters. And, of course, then was Wittenberg. When Hamlet finally and devastatingly forgot why he’d held off from sleeping with Horatio for so long. When he kept forgetting until it was a pattern. Until he was more accustomed to Horatio next to him than away. 

So it was not an unusual sensation when Hamlet awoke. Curled up against a warm body, his arm thrown over a chest that rose and fell rhythmically. A dull headache pounded at his temples, which Hamlet recognized with ease as a hangover. He wasn’t nauseous, yet, which was nice. 

“Are you awake?” he asked the boy next to him, his brain still clouded and sleepy. 

Horatio didn’t answer for a second. “Yes,” he said. 

“Okay,” he said, then kissed the side of Horatio’s neck, then curled back in. “M still tired.” 

“Hamlet, Hamlet,” said Horatio, and in a moment Hamlet found himself rudely deposited flat on the mattress. 

He stared at the empty place where Horatio’s body had been only a second before, then looked up, frowning. “Why’d you leave?” 

“I’m sorry. That I did that. But I, um. Need to talk to you.” 

“That’s ominous,” said Hamlet. 

“I don’t mean it to be.” Horatio flushed. He stood to the side of the bed. “May I-” he said, gesturing at the edge of the bed. Hamlet nodded. He sat. Hamlet pulled himself up, his head complaining at the movement, bewildered and anxious and curious. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Have I ever been?” Hamlet shrugged. “I only want to die a little more than usual.” 

“Your hair is sticking up,” Horatio said, reaching out and brushing his fingers through it. Hamlet caught his eyes and they stared at each other for a second, something soft and vulnerable floating in the space between them. 

“What do you need to talk to me about?” Hamlet said finally. His heart beat fast in his throat. 

“My lord, I, um. Well. I guess I-” Horatio gave a strained laugh. “There’s not really an easy way to say this. But I. Well. I can’t assume anything about your relationships, and I know with your health how it is, this may not seem to be something we need to worry about right now, but, um. If, hypothetically, you were to enter a relationship with Ophelia, or with anyone, I guess, but Ophelia because it seems plausible under the current circumstances, then, well, I feel that our… our physical intimacy would need to end.” 

Hamlet blinked. 

“What?” 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love… well, I really like, um, being close to you. But morally, I wouldn’t feel right continuing to have this closeness if you were to get a girlfriend. And I don’t mean just the, the-” 

“Sex?” Hamlet said, deadpan. 

“Yes, the sex. I mean. Sleeping in the same bed, or holding hands. I don’t think it would be right, or, at least, I wouldn’t feel right doing it.” 

A little cold piece of glass stabbed Hamlet in the chest. He cleared his throat; something like emotions was stuck in his windpipe. Ophelia was wrong. Ophelia was wrong, and Hamlet was right, and Hamlet should have liked being right. 

And he didn’t like it at all. 

“Why?” 

“What?” 

“Why would it feel wrong?” His voice came out more upset than he meant it to be. “I mean, you’re my best friend. You’re the most important person to me in the whole world. Why should I stop… you know, sleeping next to you, or, or hugging you, or. Doing anything a friend would do?” 

“Because I-”

“If you don’t want me, just tell me. I mean, I get it, I get that I’m a real downer and not even that good at kissing, and you could get an actual boyfriend if you stopped hanging around me all the time, but I need you to tell me that so I can stop doing things wrong-”

“Hamlet, I _ love you _ .” 

The words didn’t register for a long moment. When they did, Hamlet squinted at Horatio, sure he’d misheard. 

“I love you, Hamlet. Okay? I’m sorry.” Horatio stood up. His eyes were sparkly behind his glasses. “I can go now- if we can pretend I never said that, I’d be grateful.”

“I-Horatio, wait.” Horatio stopped. “I don’t want to!” 

“What?” 

“I don’t want to pretend like you didn’t say that.” Horatio stared at him, frozen. Hamlet’s voice went soft. “Will you come back?” 

Horatio walked, almost carefully, back towards Hamlet’s bed. Hamlet patted the mattress, and Horatio sat. On an impulse, Hamlet took his hand. 

“Please tell me if this isn’t okay,” Hamlet said, his eyes fixed on the floor. 

“It’s okay.” 

“I-Horatio, I.” 

Hamlet prided himself on his skill with words. He’d never met an English professor he couldn’t impress, a novel he couldn’t understand, an emotion he couldn’t write down. Words could flow off his tongue like honey- it was a skill even his father couldn’t dismiss. 

But, in the early morning light, his fingers half-locked with Horatio’s, his heart combusting, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. 

“Why do you love me?” 

The words slipped out before he could stop them. With burning cheeks, he looked up at Horatio, not even really sure why. 

Horatio’s eyes went soft and sad. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Without thinking, Hamlet fell forward and kissed him. It was without force, without heat, a fact that surprised him. It was a kiss that felt like Horatio saying, “hi, I’ve been waiting for you.” 

He broke out of it with a giggle, and something warm and sweet seemed to overflow in his chest, free at last. He collapsed into an embrace, burying his face in that nice, safe part of Horatio’s neck that fit perfectly. 

“Why are you laughing?” said Horatio, a tinge of worry in his tone. 

That only made Hamlet laugh harder, tears springing to his eyes. He felt high, or how being high must feel like to a normal person without paranoia issues. He kissed the side of Horatio’s neck, then his cheek, then his mouth again. “You know how I said I was straight?” he giggled. 

“Yes,” Horatio said, incredulously. “About a million times-” 

Hamlet kissed Horatio again, and for the first time truly let himself enjoy it. Horatio kissed him back immediately, wrapping his arms around Hamlet like a lifeline. 

“Holy shit, I’m gay. I’m so gay,” Hamlet said, when he was out of breath, his forehead pressed against Horatio’s. “Horatio!!! I’m a fucking twink!” 

Horatio gave a little chuckle-laugh thing. “You say that like it’s a shock.” 

“I- I-I…” Without warning, Hamlet was crying, though not in a sad way. “I’ve never said it out loud. I’ve never even… thought it, really…” 

“Hey, hey, my lord,” Horatio said, and Hamlet looked up at him, and Horatio’s face changed, and, “Hamlet. Hamlet, it’s okay. You don’t have to make any big… statements about yourself. I’m just happy you’ve… you’ve stopped hurting yourself by repressing it.” 

By now Hamlet was crying harder. “Horatio, I thought I could never love anyone, really, like, that I wasn’t even capable of it- but I’m gay! I’m gay, and I- I like boys, and I like you!” 

“I like you too.” 

Hamlet kissed him, and felt Horatio smile against his lips. 

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> lol what should i write about next


End file.
